


The Boy From Ipanema

by non_canonical



Series: We're All Mad Here [3]
Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brazil, Gen, reference to paedophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/non_canonical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tall and tan and young and lovely – that's how Cutler's been picturing the girls in Rio.  <i>(AU – canon divergence.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy From Ipanema

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shaitanah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/gifts).



> _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.
> 
> For [Shaitanah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/pseuds/Shaitanah), whose ["Rewritten By Machine"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/386545) has the original Cutler-walking-barefoot-on-the-beach-in-Rio.

Ipanema: it's a native word meaning 'bad water', which is depressingly apt from what Cutler's seen so far.  If Copacabana has turned into a war zone, then Ipanema is a refugee camp.  Most of the buildings are still standing, and it doesn't look too bad from a distance.  But up close, when you're driving through it, you can see the blackened shells of cars and the sheets of plywood nailed up over the windows.  And the streets have that familiar, watchful quiet: like London, only hotter.  And more humid.  Cutler's shirt is sticking to his back, in spite of the air conditioning.  So far, Rio has been nothing but a series of disappointments.  There's not a bikini in sight.

"What about the beach?" Cutler asks.  His suitcase is full of sandals and swimming trunks, sunglasses and sun cream – because he's not going to be a sunburnt Brit abroad.

"I wouldn't go down there, senhor," Paulo whispers, even though it's just the two of them in the back of the car and there's a sheet of glass between them and the driver.  "There have been attacks.  With holy water."

"Well, can't you do something about it?  Where's the army?"

"The army is busy.  So is the resistance.  That's why we're glad you're here.  It will help to take people's minds off … other things."

"I'm only here to organise a few dog fights."

"Of course." Paulo hesitates.  "And you are a brave man to do so, after what happened to the last –"

"Sorry, what?" Cutler turns so abruptly, so violently, that he makes the other man flinch.  He drops his voice back down an octave.  "What happened to him?" God only knows what Cutler's face is saying, but it's clearly pitiful enough that Paulo reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder – which is somehow less than reassuring.

"You mustn't worry, do you understand?"

But Cutler does understand, only too well.  He's starting to understand a lot of things about this job he's been given, his nice little holiday in the sun – and it was his mistake for believing it would be that simple.  Suddenly that armed escort seems less like a ceremonial honour and more like a grim necessity.  If the resistance got to his predecessor they can get to him, and he never signed up for anything like this.  He's not going to put his life on the line.

He'll do a quick PR job instead: shake a few hands, show his face in the right circles.  He's brought the footage of the London fights.  He can leave that with them, give them a few contacts in his technical department, and be on the next flight back to London.  London: just the thought of it makes him long for grey drizzle, for familiar faces.  For the safety net of Hal's presence.  Cutler almost wishes Fergus were here, and that is never a good sign.  Maybe he'll be able to requisition a plane: he is Mr Snow's representative, after all.  Mr Snow's highly conspicuous, highly vulnerable, representative.

The car turns off into the grounds of an old colonial mansion and Cutler waits for the driver to open the door for him.  He's the VIP around here, and he ought to get something for all the danger he's putting himself in.  Cutler's eyes are drawn to the mountain top, to the rubble that marks where Christ the Redeemer once tried to embrace the world.  He ought to be glad it's gone, because now he'll be able to enjoy the view from the balcony without actually being in pain, but somehow it seems wrong.  A jarring void, like a tooth that's just been pulled.  Then Paulo is ushering him inside, and they can bring his cases if they like, but Cutler has no intention of staying long enough to unpack.

"I've arranged for a little welcoming present," Paulo tells him.  "You must be hungry after your journey.  Hungry for blood and … other things."

Cutler doesn't appreciate the man's knowing leer, but he'll let it go this time if there's someone nice waiting for him in the bedroom.  A real Brazilian beauty.  Maybe even a girl from Ipanema: golden skin and a beach body.

"Only the best for you, senhor Cutler."

Paulo opens the door – and thumps into Cutler, who's already backing away, backing out, face heating in anger, in embarrassment.  He slams the door shut again.

"What's wrong?" Paulo asks.  "Isn't he pretty?"

Maybe he is, if you like that sort of thing – but Cutler really, really doesn't like that sort of thing, and he has no idea why anyone would think that he does.

"Is this some sort of joke?" he splutters, because he might be a monster but he isn't a pervert.  That kid can't be more than ten years old.

"But we were told that you liked little boys."

"Who said that?  Because Fergus specifically told me that he'd made all the arrange–"

Fergus – that lying fucker! He's probably laughing about this right now: Cutler the idiot, blundering around on his own in a foreign country.  They're all laughing at him: Fergus and Paulo, and Mr Snow: the one who landed him in this shit hole in the first place.  Hal, as well, because he'd never let a little thing like loyalty – like friendship – get in the way of a good joke.  They're all waiting for him to slink home, tail between his legs.

But Cutler's going to show them.  He's going to put on those shorts and sandals and take a stroll along Ipanema beach, even if he needs a whole platoon of bodyguards to watch his back.  And then he's going to post a photo of it on Facebook.  Cutler's going to give this country the best dog fights it's ever seen – the best the world has ever seen.  More fights; more victims.  And if they can't catch enough werewolves then they'll make their own.  It's going to be bigger than Carnival.  It's going to be bigger than any spectacle that even the Romans could have come up with – and maybe Cutler will go there next, rebuild the Colosseum.  He might even make a start here, erect a new statue up on the mountain, an unambiguous statement of intent.

"Paulo," he says, and it's only now that he realises he has the man pinned to the wall.  He releases his grip, because Paulo's no use to him if he isn't able to speak.  "Bring me the details of your largest stadium."  
 


End file.
